


Warm My Heavy Hands

by subjunctive



Series: Author's Favorites [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Smut, Blowjobs, Facials, First Time, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, POV Jon, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-13 21:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13579041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: In the Wolfswood, on the Midautumn's Eve Hunt for the White Stag, Jon and Theon get lost in a snowstorm together.





	Warm My Heavy Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Highsmith (quimtessence)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/gifts).



> This is set in canon, but in an AU where the precipitating events of the book (Jon Arryn's assassination and Robert coming to name Ned Hand of the King) never happened, a few years on. The story isn't very specific about ages, but Jon is an adult by Westerosi standards. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta lagardere, who helped this story become the best version of itself, and who pointed me in the direction of the title, which comes from Matthew and the Atlas's "I Followed Fires."
> 
> I tried to get more details about your smutty preferences through the mod, but didn't get a response. I hope I didn't step on any of your toes, and that you enjoy this!

"This is all your fault," Jon said, for no other reason than the satisfaction of saying it.

Theon did not take the bait, but Jon could hear his grin in his words. "You're welcome."

"What's there to be thankful for?"

"Why, all of this." Theon spread his hands. Jon felt the gesture bump his middle. There was hardly room enough for the both of them in here.

"Here" was a makeshift shelter, built by another's hands. A poacher's, perhaps, although the smell of dung indicated it was more in use by the local wildlife. It was not much, merely a few logs assembled on a slope, giving just enough cover for them both. It was not tall enough to sit in, so they lay side-by-side.

There were not even any stars to see by; the snow was coming down too thickly, and a blanket of clouds covered the sky. That was why they were here. They had gotten lost.

Or, rather, Theon had gotten them lost.

"You've lost what little was left of your mind," grumbled Jon. He did not eagerly anticipate spending the rest of Midautumn's Eve with a madman. Nor did he particularly care to die thanks to Theon Greyjoy's stupidity.

He ought to have ignored Theon; the gods knew he did it often enough. But on Midautumn's Eve, the last large hunting party of the season had left the castle in search of the white stag. It was a grand tradition, undertaken every autumn, and the results of the Hunt were considered an important omen. Killing the white stag and bringing it back to Winterfell for a feast was a good portent for the winter to come and great cause for celebration.

Of course, Theon had claimed to glimpse the stag, and then led Jon off on a wild chase, claiming he was the best archer in the party and he should have the honors, Jon being privileged to accompany him and help him carry the stag back. Under ordinary circumstances Jon never paid attention to any of the many words that left Theon's lips . . . but part of him had cherished a hope that _he_ would be the one to slay the white stag and bring it home. So, like a fool, he had followed.

That hope puffed away with every breath, leaving behind only regret and anger—more at himself than Theon, who was after all only acting as he always did. Foolishly and recklessly. But Jon had thought himself gifted with better sense. Now he could see the desire for what it was: a child's fantasy. Instead of his father's approbation, he would only return to disapproval and disappointment.

"A taste of what the Wall must be like, for you," Theon commented, each word steaming the air with derision.

Jon flushed. "That's none of your business."

Theon snorted. "I don't give a rat's arse where you flee to. Though I can't imagine any particular attractions of that boil on the arse of the earth."

"The Night's Watch serves the realm," Jon said stiffly.

Theon had himself a good laugh at that. "Aye, they fight off the grumkins and snarks on our behalf. Brave knights. Many thanks. Once we return to the castle, I'll pen them a letter expressing my newfound gratitude. You've m-made me see the light, S-S-Snow."

The scathing tone of his jab was undercut by his chattering teeth.

"Cold?" Jon asked politely. Theon's gloves had gotten wet, he recalled.

"F-fuck you." Theon held his now-bare hands in front of his face and puffed.

Night had fallen, and it would only grow colder, Jon reflected glumly. Maester Luwin had given him a thorough education in the arts and skills of surviving the harsh terrain of a Northern winter. He had done the same for Theon too, of course, but it was Jon who dreamed of being a ranger of the Night's Watch and Theon who never paid a whit of serious attention to anything and, as far as Jon could tell, dreamed of nothing.

"Come here," Jon said with resignation, pulling on his cloak and reaching for Theon's as well. "And take off your coat as well."

Theon made a surprised sound before laughing. "Why, Snow, I didn't think . . ."

"Oh, shut up. We can't build a fire, so we'll have to keep warm another way."

"If you insist. Though you really didn't have to go to such lengths to warm my bed. If I'd known—"

"Theon . . ."

Theon only laughed and shed his coat as well, before tucking himself close to Jon, who occupied himself by making sure they were thoroughly covered by cloak and coat. The idea was to share the warmth of their bodies. Their outermost layers were wet, and they wanted to be in a warm, dry cocoon. He repeated this to himself as he lay down with Theon, wondering for a wild moment if Theon's words were some sort of spell working on him. Theon was so close, and Jon was so aware of his body and its nearness and Theon's breath ghosting over his jaw, sending gooseprickles racing across his skin.

Making sure not to disturb anything, Jon twisted himself around so that his back was to Theon's front, and ignored Theon's amused huff. But even though he could no longer see Theon, he could still feel him—a long line of heat down Jon's back as he moved closer, bringing them into alignment.

Something cold touched the back of Jon's neck, and he yelped. "Theon!"

Theon removed his fingers and laughed. "Such a tempting target. I couldn't resist."

Then he breathed out deeply, a flood of sudden wet warmth that stirred the hairs on his neck. "Better?"

It was profoundly discomfiting, but Jon didn't dare reveal that and give Theon the satisfaction. Instead he sighed and tried to find something else to occupy his attention. They had pulled the cloaks over their faces, but there was a small opening through which he could see outside their cave into the world beyond.

The wind howled fiercely and snow whipped across his vision, obscuring everything. There was nothing to see. Jon twitched the gap closed and thought of Winterfell until he fell asleep.

  
  
  
 

He woke some time later, not knowing where he was. For some moments he panicked, until he remembered what had happened, and peeked outside.

It could not have been more than a few hours, he judged, as the snow had only gathered perhaps a foot or a little more. It was not quite enough to cover the entrance to their shelter, but it did buffet the worst of the winds and cold. Outside, the storm raged, but it did not touch them.

Sometime during their nap, Theon's arm had snuck around his middle, pinning him in place. Jon tried to return to sleep, but to no avail. He wanted to shove Theon's arm off—he suspected it was distracting him—but to do so would be to risk Theon's awakening and the destruction of a few moments of peace and quiet.

Theon, being Theon, ruined it himself. Behind Jon, he stirred.

Jon groaned internally. Several moments passed where he hoped devoutly Theon had gone back to sleep, but the gods were not smiling on him. The hand twitched and felt him, to his consternation, and this time Jon did push it away.

"Forgot who I was bedding down with," Theon mumbled, spitting out a chunk of Jon's hair. "Thought I was going to have some fun, but then I remembered you don't know what that is."

"Sorry to disappoint," Jon said. "At least we're warm."

Surprisingly, they were. Maester Luwin had spoken of snow-caves helping to keep wayward travelers and indigents warm. It seemed too strange to be believed. But now he could see how they were sheltered from the ravaging wind and precipitation.

Jon's stomach growled.

"Don't suppose you have anything to eat," Jon ventured, to cover his embarrassment.

Theon laughed. "Strongwine. That's what I have."

That figured, Jon supposed. "It gives you a false warmth, Maester Luwin said. It's dangerous."

"We're already warm," Theon pointed out. "Besides, if I'm stuck here with you, I'm going to need it."

Jon felt him rummage around for several moments before he heard an 'ah' of satisfaction and a gulp.

"Eurgh," Theon said, coughing. "Tastes like the Night King's balls. Here."

He shoved the flask over Jon's shoulder.

"For me?" Jon took a sip. It was disgustingly warm. Still, he took another.

"You can only become more pleasant."

Jon screwed the cap on and tried to return it, but Theon only shoved it into the snow in front of his face.

"Mayhaps it will get cold before we're found. If we're found."

"What do you mean, _if_?"

A trouble-making slyness slipped into Theon's voice. "What has House Stark lost this night? Bastard sons are as common as coppers."

Jon knew that Theon was only trying to get under his skin, but the knowledge didn't help.

"I suppose they can't lose their precious _ward_ , either. Else what would your father do?"

Immediately he was ashamed and wished the words had never left his lips. _I never should have sunk to his level,_ he told himself, but that was not the true source of the guilt squirming in his stomach. A low, dull anger filled him. Why did Theon have to be so awful?

He expected Theon to be angry, to lash out with a fist or a sharp word meant to cut deep. But Theon only laughed, long and low and satisfied.

"That's right, Snow. They might forget you, but never me. So you needn't worry."

Jon supposed he had earned that, after what he said, but it still stung. _Father brought me home and claimed me as his son before all the North. Before his wife,_ he reminded himself. He would not die abandoned in the Wolfswood, even without Theon's presence.

"I'm not tired," he said aloud.

"Neither am I. Hmm. Let's play a game."

"A game?" Jon was instantly wary.

Theon chuckled. "Don't worry, it's a simple one. It's called 'what would you rather be doing right now?'"

That was easy. "Bathing in one of the hot springs."

Theon cuffed him on the shoulder, a dull thump he barely felt through several layers of linen and wool.

"No fair," complained Theon, "I didn't say go, that was going to be mine."

"You sound like a child," Jon said loftily.

"I would rather be . . . eating a great big roast. Just ripping off hunks of meat and tearing it apart. Hot and steaming. Juices running down my chin." Theon made a smacking sound.

Jon winced, his stomach growling again. "Don't do food, I'm starving."

"I know."

Jon could hear him smirking, so he shoved his elbow into Theon's ribs, or as much as he could. The ensuing struggle found Jon flat on his back, pinned beneath Theon's tall frame.

"You know, Snow," drawled Theon, "if you got in more fights, you might stand a chance of winning once in a while."

With a burst of passion Jon struggled to free himself, but it soon faltered when he realized he could not. Instead of giving Theon the conflict he wanted, he slumped back, and let his head tilt back.

"I suppose it's my turn," said Jon as casually as he could manage with Theon's weight atop him, as if this were something that happened every day. He tried to think of the most inoffensive answer possible. "I would rather be in my bed at home. Sleeping."

"I'd rather _not_ be sleeping in a bed in the winter town. If you know what I mean."

"Ugh." He should have known better than saying something about a bed. Then again, Theon could likely take anything innocent and make it lewd.

"Nothing better than a hot, wet cunt to keep you warm when it's cold out. Not that you would know, of course."

"Ugh," Jon said again, louder.

"Shall I avail you of the details? Her skin is rosy from the firelight, her teats round and full, nipples tight and hard, curves sweeter than one of Nan's applecakes . . ."

Theon was good at painting a picture with words, a talent he naturally wasted on filth. It was as if he could see the room, and Theon in it too, the muscles of his bare back rippling as he moved. He'd seen Theon naked before, although he’d tried not to pay attention to it. Mostly in the godswood, swimming. He was a good swimmer, as comfortable in the water as any of Jon's siblings; Jon had reluctantly admired his form.

Theon's words were having a deeply unwanted effect on Jon, which he very much hoped Theon could not feel.

"Honestly," Jon said in a desperate bid to distract, "I would rather be at the Wall."

Theon sighed. "You are predictably boring. Of course you would. When are you finally leaving?"

"Leaving?"

"The Wall," Theon said impatiently. "You're so eager to let your cock shrivel up, and no one will be able to travel before long, so it must be soon."

"Oh. I'm not."

"You're not?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"Not until the spring," Jon clarified.

Father had been so surprised when Jon suggested it, the day after his sixteenth nameday. He'd made his plea as clearly and concisely as he could, having rehearsed it a hundred times. _Why?_ Father had asked, sounding shocked, and Jon had faltered into silence. He had expected Father to understand implicitly. The reasons seemed so obvious, so clear. Yet they were unsayable. Unable to explain, he had resorted to fleeing before the tears came and humiliated him. Later, Father had taken him aside and said, _This matter may wait until the spring._ That had been the end of that conversation.

But the winter was supposed to be long and harsh, and he did not know how to explain he wasn't sure how many more years of wilting stares and frosty silences he could bear.

As if his mind were a page in a book, Theon said, "I would guess Lady Stark isn't too happy you'll still be underfoot."

"It isn't her choice," said Jon shortly. It was Father's, so Jon would bear it.

"Nor yours," Theon guessed, likely only astute by accident, "though it does make one wonder who would willingly choose the Wall. Not many, I suspect, with that illustrious company—rapists and thieves and poachers . . ."

"The Wall is a chance for honor." A bastard's sort of honor, but honor nonetheless.

Theon snorted. His murmur was hot and laced with strongwine and _right there_ , closer than he had ever been before. "The Wall is a chance to die with your name forgotten forever, after your prick and balls freeze and fall off. Though I suppose you might consider that more blessing than curse. You've never even kissed anyone before, have you?"

"I have too," Jon blurted.

"Oh, you have, have you?"

Jon already regretted the outburst, but forged ahead. "One of the kitchen girls . . . her friends dared her."

Jon hardly remembered the kiss itself; it was over before it really began.

"Now that's just sad." Theon's voice was barely audible, yet oddly intent.

Jon opened his mouth to say something, but then Theon's nose bumped his and chased away whatever thought was in his mind. Then there was a soft pressure on his mouth, and he realized Theon was kissing him.

Jon was too stunned to do anything but let it happen. Theon's lips nudged his further apart and his tongue slipped inside to stroke along his own, making him shiver from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. The inside of Theon's mouth was warm and wet, he discovered, and his lips were soft. Theon's hand came up to tilt his head back.

Belatedly Jon realized that this meant one of his own was free, that he could push Theon away or punch him and make this stop. He didn't.

It was as if this were happening to somebody else, in some other place or time, another world where Jon wasn't Lord Stark's bastard son and Theon wasn't his ward. There was a strange freedom to it, exciting and frightening. Theon sucked on his tongue and Jon groaned in surprise.

Theon drew back slightly. "Not bad for a novice, Snow."

Jon expected the insult to chase away this strange and sudden fever, but it didn't.

"Now you just need to learn how to use your . . ."

Jon found a use for his free hand. He pulled Theon's mouth to his again and heard Theon's _mmph._

This was much better than listening to his endless taunts and jeers, Jon decided.

"I know how to use it," he said when he finally released Theon, who laughed breathlessly.

"Well then, Maester—show me."

Jon struggled to take Theon's meaning. Theon grabbed his hand. Startled, Jon didn't realize what he was doing. He bit the tips of Jon's fingers one by one to tug off his glove, sending a rush of heat to Jon's groin. Then he did the same with his own, and snaked their hands down Jon's body to rest on his crotch.

"Sh-show you?" Jon stammered with a full-body jerk. Several layers of wool and linen and leather divided them, but he could feel the pressure of Theon's palm like a promise.

"Show me," Theon murmured against Jon's lips, "what you like. But first get rid of all these bloody clothes."

When Jon unlaced his breeches, Theon took both their hands and pushed them together inside his smallclothes. Jon made a startled, involuntary sound. Sure, strong fingers took Jon's and wrapped them around his cock, and then Theon covered Jon's hand with his own.

Part of him wanted to be kissing Theon again, but Theon gave no sign of wanting the same thing, so Jon kept his lips to himself.

"Go on," Theon whispered.

Jon let his head slip back and his eyes close and began to jerk himself off.

Theon's hand squeezed his hard enough to make him stop. "Whoa, there. It's not a race to the finish."

Jon didn't understand. Was he doing something wrong?

"Slow down. Make it good. Surely you know how."

Didn't everyone do it this way? Quick, quiet, furtive? It was a necessary function, not an indulgence.

"Seven hells." Theon pushed Jon's hand aside and grasped his cock. His grip was tight, but his movements brutally slow. Jon's breath came in shallow gasps.

"You don't ever take a little time with it?" Theon's head dropped so that he was murmuring directly into Jon's ear, and he punctuated his question with a twist of his wrist that made Jon's head spin. "You don't think about burying your prick in a warm, sweet cunt on a lonely night? Or of someone taking your cock between their lips, licking, sucking—"

Theon's tongue traced the edge of Jon's ear, and he sucked Jon's earlobe into his mouth. The hot, wet suction sent Jon over the edge and he spent with a pathetic noise and a vision of stars behind his eyelids.

Theon was not a patient sort. He fumbled for Jon's hand in the darkness and placed it over the bulge between his own legs.

Dizzily, Jon traced the hard outline with a finger while Theon struggled with the laces of his breeches, swearing prolifically. Finally Jon reached into his boot, withdrawing a small knife and using it to slice through the laces.

When he realized what Jon had done, Theon whispered almost admiringly, "Fuck, you dirty b--"

He didn't want to hear that. Jon cut him off with a hard, clumsy kiss, and slipped his hand inside Theon's pants. His skin was blazing hot. Jon had taken himself in hand many times, but it felt so different when it was someone else's. He found himself touching Theon more gingerly, running his thumb over the head and the edge of his foreskin and stroking his length gently.

"What are you going to do with it?" Theon panted, thrusting into Jon's loose grip. "Stroke it like a lady? Suck it like—"

"Would that get you to shut up?" Jon asked crossly.

For a moment there was silence as Theon sucked in a breath—then he laughed. Jon could not remember a time when he had ever laughed at something Jon had said, rather than at Jon himself. It was oddly pleasing.

"No promises," Theon said rather breathlessly. One of his thumbs pressed against Jon's lips, pulling them apart. “Shall I tell you what to do, novice?”

“No,” was Jon’s immediate answer, though he had no idea what he was doing. Maneuvering into place was awkward even with Theon’s swear-laden help. Finding himself halfway curled up at one end of the shelter, he began to regret this decision. But there was nothing to do but forge ahead—certainly he would not admit defeat to Theon Greyjoy.

He found himself wishing for a bit of light. In the darkness, he had to rely on touch and sound to guide the way. He licked it first, swiping across the head and down the shaft, and then set himself to the task of exploring.

Theon most certainly did not shut up.

Instead he panted instructions and whispered praises and hissed, with a grab to Jon's hair, "Not so much teeth!" and a hasty addendum: "but some teeth, a little teeth." He could feel Theon's heartbeat, Jon realized, and rested his lips against the tip to feel the quick thrum.

" _Snow_ ," Theon said, agonized, pushing against Jon's mouth until he opened again. The weight of it was heavy in his mouth, and the taste salty. Not unpleasant.

One of his hands came to the base of his shaft and ventured beyond, stroking Theon's balls behind the fabric, feeling as though he'd uncovered a great secret when Theon swore ferociously and thrust deeper into Jon's mouth.

The grip on Jon's hair intensified and pulled his head back, while Theon's other hand stroked his cock, fast and frantic. Jon was wondering if he'd done something wrong when hot liquid splashed onto his face. Some landed in his open mouth, and he swallowed it reflexively. The rest marked his cheeks, chin, lips.

Theon let out a deep, ragged breath and whispered, "Fuck, I wish I could see you," and tugged Jon up by his hair to kiss him messily and thoroughly, with a searching tongue. They kissed and kissed until finally, jaw too sore, Jon pushed him away and wiped his mouth.

Theon began playing lazily with Jon's hair, as easily and naturally as if it belonged to him. Jon let him. It was far from unpleasant.

"You'll miss that on the Wall," Theon informed him breathlessly.

Jon huffed. "There are plenty of men in the Night's Watch. It's the only sort they allow, as I recall." He was glad Theon couldn't see him blush for saying it.

That gave Theon pause—for a moment. "Well, they won’t be as good as me."

Jon merely shook his head, knowing Theon would feel the gesture. His eyes were slipping closed, and warmth spread slowly through his chest.

“They won’t be me,” Theon added, so quietly Jon nearly didn’t hear him as he drifted off.

  
  
  
 

In the morning, they dug themselves out. The snow had piled up in front of their cave and covered the entrance, but came almost no higher than that.

The world outside was blanketed in it, sparkling in the rising sun, and the sky was clear. Their breath puffed white in the air as Jon looked around for a sign of the hunting camp. It would be easier, he thought, if they knew where they'd gone in relation to the camp, but the snowstorm had confused everything.

He knew the direction in which Winterfell lay, at least. It might be easiest to simply return to the castle—less embarrassing, perhaps.

Theon was unusually quiet, but then Robb often said Theon was impossible to rouse in the mornings. He paid Jon no mind, which Jon told himself was a relief. Ignoring the niggle of disappointment in his gut, he climbed a tall tree, shaking off the last of its dead leaves crusted with ice with every foothold, and looked for signs of human life.

He made his way down and landed soft in the snow. His growling stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since the day before, and he was starving. Strongwine didn't make as good a breakfast as it did a dinner, he suspected. He glanced toward Theon, who was lounging against a tree like he hadn't a care in the world, cleaning underneath his nails with the tip of his knife.

Jon tugged his scarf down to speak. "There are fires toward the east." 

"Shall we go west, then?"

"What?"

Theon threw the knife up and caught it by the handle. There was an edge to his smile, a hard gleam in his eye. "The whole world is ahead of us. Why waste the opportunity?"

Jon did not understand. "Opportunity?"

"I am the heir to the Iron Islands, I'm sure I can find myself a boat. Winter is coming, but southron seas are fair. I hear Dorne is almost pleasant during the winter. No one gives a shit about bastards there."

Jon reeled. "You want to run away."

"Isn't that what you were going to do anyway?"

Underneath his scarf Jon flushed. "It's not the same."

"It's not?" Theon gave him a pointed look.

Under this scrutiny Jon fidgeted. It was probably the most words Theon had ever directed at him, and that made him wary. Surely he couldn't be serious. Surely he couldn't be serious about _inviting Jon along_. They could hardly exchange two civil words at ordinary times.

For a moment he almost caught a picture of it. A place where people wouldn’t care who Jon’s mother was. Where his actions spoke louder than his name.

Much as he hated to admit it, Theon was right about one thing: he had already thought to leave and make his own way. Reflexively Jon looked to the west, toward the Sunset Sea and whatever lay beyond. The same forest, but a different path.

"They would catch us before we got very far," Jon pointed out. "We'd leave too many tracks in the snow."

A light dimmed in Theon's eyes, like a candle sputtering out. His jest being ruined, no doubt.

"And if I went anyway, would you chase me or leave me be?"

Jon balked, unsure what to say.

Theon barked out a short, nasty laugh. "Don't strain yourself, Snow. It was only a pointless question." He tipped his flask back and took a long pull.

"At least we'll find some breakfast," offered Jon uneasily.

"Do you think they will welcome us with celebrations? As Winterfell's wayward _sons_?"

It was more likely they would be the subject of several mocking ditties that would warm the inhabitants of the castle throughout the winter with laughter.

"Robb will," Jon insisted nonetheless. And Bran would, too, and Arya when he returned to the castle. There were people waiting for him. He almost laughed at the idea of following Theon's hare-brained scheme, at the fact that he had almost considered it, even only for a moment. Hadn't he done that the night before? And look where it had gotten him.

They set off, the rising sun leading them back to the only home Jon had ever known.


End file.
